The Tomorrow Log and Dragon Tide

by Sharon Lee

"Atop the middle tine of the Smiter was seated the Soulstone, which purpose was to look upon the souls of the Bindalche's enemies and drink dry those who were unworthy. The Soulstone is an artifact of great power—a mover of event in its own force. It is to be recalled as an ally of the Smiter, collaborating in the acceptance or rejection of a Seeker and in the unending struggle to command event."

  He opened his eyes, wide, and Gem saw how the sweat ran the man's dark face. "That was a far Recalling, Anjemalti. Of the others, I find nothing, save a general Memory, not quite as old as that concerning the Soulstone, which indicates that the enhancer gems must be faceted according to a pattern I am now able to draw, should you require. No other specifications were Memorized."

  "And the—Soulstone," Gem demanded, hating the need that forced him to drive the other. "Were there specifications for shaping it?"

  Almost, it seemed Witness would laugh. "One might as well shape the Smiter, Anjemalti. It is its own power, so Memory tells us. Who dares impose his own form upon such?"

  "Who, indeed?" murmured Gem, looking at the charred spot above the Trident's middle tine.

  The Soulstone had been somewhat larger than Mordra El Theman's thief-catcher, and the brass clasps that had held it in place had melted half away. The fittings that had held the two lesser stones were merely broken.

  Well, thought Gem, there will be other things that will hold it just as securely. Epoxy, perhaps, or—He yawned, suddenly and hugely, abruptly aware of crushing exhaustion. He glanced down at his own hands, and was mildly surprised to see them shaking.

  He looked at Witness. "Before I undertake such an exacting task, I will sleep. I hope it will not offend if I counsel the same for you."

  "I see the path you point me, Anjemalti, and trust my skill to bring me game."

  Whatever that meant, Gem thought, and got shakily to his feet, walked the two steps to the bed and fell across it, sight blurring and mind showing him nothing but a swirl of random colors.

  Drowned in color, Gem slept, and dreamed of picking flowers and of Corbinye, laughing.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  For a time, she sat in the pilot's chair. Merely sat, the spider quiescent on her knee, amber eyes sage and bright. And after a time of sitting, she dozed and dreamed of the child that had not lived, the child of her body. Her dead body. And she dreamed of the child she had been, and that Anjemalti had been, and the games they had played with the others in the dark corridors of the Ship, where the air smelled as it should and every bend and twist of hallway was known, gene-deep, and there was nothing to fear in all the beloved expanse of the Ship, where everyone was cousin, or closer, and each depended wholly upon the other.

  Fear lived among the Grounders—blind, incomprehensible half-humans. Fear, and treachery, for there were always those who wished to entrap the Ship, to gain the freedom of the Crew for their own, to roam from star to star, as real humans did, rather than continue as animals, grubbing dirt from birth to dying-time.

  And yet, the Ship required repair, from time to time; required such things as only Grounders, dirt-grubbers and half-human as they were, had the way of manufacturing. For the Ships—she had read it in the Log of the Eighty-Fifth Captain, who was called Mad Endriatta—the Ships had never been made to be used as the Crew chose to use them, decade upon century, with no touching down, or taking on of passengers, or exchange of persons with friendly colonies.

  Captain Endriatta was offered the Knife for her blasphemy, and she did redeem herself, before Ship and Crew; her First Mate followed by seconds, killed by his grief. In the dream, it was vivid—real—as if she had seen it all with her own eyes.

  Corbinye stirred in the pilot's chair, came awake and glanced at the trip-clock. Fifteen hours yet until the end of transition. If the gods smiled, Gardenspot would be within hailing distance when Hyacinth hit normal space. She stretched her cramped body and smiled ruefully at Number Fifteen.

  "A sorry thing," she said, "when the pilot must sleep in her chair." She sighed and offered the spider her palm. It came willingly, as always, tiny claws mincing across her flesh, and she wondered anew at Anjemalti's skill.

  "Well," she said, and stood up, stretching cramped muscles. It had been too long since she had put the body through its paces. Very bad, should she lose discipline now, just when she had been approaching a degree of competence. She caught sight of her face—high-cheeked and lovely—in the darkened screens and froze, staring. She felt a slight weight, moving up her sleeve: Number Fifteen, climbing. "I had forgot," she whispered, raising a hand to cup the dewy cheek, then shook herself.

  "I am Corbinye Faztherot," she said, firm and loud in the quiet of the ship, "of the Crew of the Ship Gardenspot, who owes duty to the First Mate, and to the Captain-to-be. I am Worldwalker, and Seeker, and Speaker-to-Grounders. I have passed the tests and the trials. I have borne a child for the Ship. None can negate my actions, and my actions have been always honorable and just."

  The spider reached her shoulder, skittered beneath her collar and held on. Corbinye sighed, and turned away from the screens and the busy boards.

  "I am tired," she said, perhaps to the spider, perhaps only to herself. Briefly, she wondered what Anjemalti was about—then set the thought aside. Anjemalti despised her—how often had she seen it in his eyes? Best leave that alone, to wither and to die, and not to think on the comeliness of him. Best to regard him as the Captain, who must be obeyed. After he was safely with the Ship.

  "Hai . . ." she went down the companionway, heading for the cabin that was intended for the second pilot, though she never ran with such. She hesitated at the galley door, then stepped in, banging her hip against the table before she remembered the light, and poured herself a half-glass of Viktrian Brandy—Grounder stuff, and excellent of its kind. Better, Corbinye thought, putting the bottle back into its hatch, than any distillations the Crew produced.

  Carrying the glass with her, the spider a comfort tucked beneath her collar, she went down the hall and let herself into the tiny cabin.

  * * *

  She woke some untold time later, sat up and rubbed her neck. Apparently, the new body had not the tolerance for Viktrian grape that her old one had. She blinked blearily at the pillow, where Number Fifteen stood patient guard, and grimaced.

  "A cold shower, I think. And a workout. Then a hot shower, clean clothes . . ." That brought her up—Her clothes were in the cabin Anjemalti had made his own—and would hardly fit her new shape, in anywise. "Very well, then," she said and stood up briskly enough to send a flare of pain through her head. "We shall wash these clothes." And hope, she added silently, that the ancient cleaner unit was equal to the task.

  * * *

  An hour later, exercised, showered and in clothes from which the worst grime had been removed, she went down the companionway. The galley showed signs of having been used—tea had been brewed and journeybread withdrawn from the food bank. After putting the brandy glass to be washed, she withdrew tea and journeybread herself and carried the meal with her to the bridge.

  Seven hours until transition into normal space. Corbinye ran such checks as were needed and leaned back in her chair, dusting the last crumbs of journeybread from her fingers.

  "All's well with the ship," she murmured, though she had never been prone to speaking aloud to herself—before. She moved her shoulders and felt the friendly weight of Number Fifteen just within her collar. Mere politeness, after all, to speak to one's visitor, and explain the signs and portents of the day. She shook her head. "I begin to sound as mad as this Witness of Anjemalti's."

  With which thought, she came out of the chair and picked up her mug. "Best see what madness the two of them have wrought this while," she said to Number Fifteen. "For it's as if they are children—too much silence foretells disaster."

  * * *

  The room that had been hers smelled metallic and damp and there was a sweetish stink, as perhaps of patch adhesive, which had overloaded the air-cleaning system and simply hung
, like a putrid mist.

  She paused in the doorway, hip against the jamb, and looked at the two of them: Witness cross-legged and intent upon the bed, leaning vulturelike over the floor where Anjemalti knelt amid a blizzard of parts, wire and stripped insulation, papers and spiders. His hair was twisted into a knot at the back of his head, held with wire skewers, his sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his hands were delicately—so very carefully—probing here and there among the junk that littered the surface of his damned Trident. At his knee was a pot of epoxy and in a half-ring around him were the spiders, varicolored eyes no less intent than the Witness' own.

  Corbinye sighed and had a sip of lukewarm tea. Anjemalti reached among the litter on the floor and drew forth a flash of deep, glittering red—a ruby, Corbinye thought, and deliberately did not think that he might have gotten it from the weapons tuning kit, though she made no doubt he had.

  Carefully, he matched the stone with a place upon the shaft of the Trident, and touched the epoxy brush to the surface. Even more carefully, he turned the stone in his fingers, orienting it to some lodestar only he could see, and pushed it firmly into the glue.

  On the bed, Witness let go a deep, shuddering sigh. Neither he nor Anjemalti looked up.

  Once more, Anjemalti reached among the trash surrounding him and pulled out the urn in which Theo had imprisoned the brown and green stone an age or so ago. He worked the stopper and spilled the stone free.

  It flared as it hit Anjemalti's palm, washing the room in baleful green light. Corbinye came straight upright in the doorway, a scream of sheer terror cramping her throat. Witness raised a hand and drew a series of patterns in the air before his face, minding neither the sweat that mantled his forehead nor the tears that spilled from his eyes.

  Only Anjemalti seemed unaffected. He picked the stone up between thumb and forefinger; turned it this way, that way; laid it against a spot centered above the Trident's tines.

  Green lightnings sparked about the room and distant thunder rumbled. Several of the other stones on the Trident flashed, sparked; ghostlight flickered along the wiring.

  Anjemalti plucked the stone from its resting place and dabbed the spot with epoxy. Setting brush and pot aside, he glanced up at Witness.

  "This may end all Memory, friend."

  "I think not, Anjemalti," returned the other, eyes never leaving the Trident. "You are a Chief of many powers. A Seeker of astonishing boldness."

  "And thus the Goddess will love me," Anjemalti said ruefully. "We shall see." He pushed the stone firmly into the adhesive.

  The ship disappeared in a sheet of green thunder and Corbinye fell away and down and into the noise and the fire and the terror. Beyond it all she heard someone singing crazed hosanna and someone else crying her name.

  "Corbinye!" Her name once more, snapped like an order, and accompanied by a sharp slap to the cheek. Not an order, then, for none of the Crew would dare to strike her. They knew her, so they did, and knew what she would not brook.

  "Corbinye!" Again, voice crackling on the edge of familiarity. She opened her eyes, more out of a desire to see the fool who so ardently wished his arm broken than because the tone commanded her.

  "So." Anjemalti's face, grime-streaked and stark, hung over hers, almost near enough to kiss. So like him, she thought wearily, to choose a blow instead.

  "So," she managed in turn, and tried to right herself, only to be pinned where she lay by astonishingly gentle hands on her shoulders.

  "Rest a moment, Corbinye. You struck your head—and lucky you didn't slice it open. It was enough to stun, though—"

  "My ship," she cut him off brusquely as memory returned. "What has that damned thing done to my ship, Anjemalti?" She struggled, the hands lifted away and she sat up, though her ears rang with the effort of it and her vision swam.

  "The ship appears unharmed," he said, amazingly mild.

  "Have you been to the bridge?" she snarled. "Have you run systems checks? That—monster—swallows my ship and you tell me it seems unharmed? I'll tell you plain—cousin—it's my opinion that my ship isn't all it's swallowed!"

  His cheeks flamed scarlet and his mouth tightened ominously. "And just what is that plain speaking meant to say?"

  "Only that it's gained possession of your mind; made its own existence paramount, so that you risk Ship and Captain and—aye!—Crew to aid it. Damn the Ship, you dared to tell me, Anjemalti—recall it? Well, I say, damn that fool stick! Space it and have done; cease toying with destiny—you have destiny! You have folk who need you, who wait on your arrival! Seven hours until you're home—"

  "Home." His mouth was hard, and his eyes. He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. "You hear my cousin, friend? She claims that the Smiter has eaten both her ship and myself."

  "It is not Recalled that the Smiter has ever eaten any but enemies, Anjemalti; though Chiefs and Seekers have fallen valorously, striving with it to bend event." There was a slight pause while Corbinye strained to see him around Anjemalti's shoulders, and failed.

  "As for the ship—it is all around us. That the Smiter did taste of it seems certain. Newly wakened to fullness, it would require information regarding its location within the state of event. That the Smiter has swallowed ships is Remembered. Witnessing does not support the theory that this ship has been swallowed."

  Anjemalti looked at her, eyes sapphire-bright, sapphire-hard. "Satisfied?"

  "Oh, certainly!" she cried, rolling away from him and coming to her feet, despite all the body's protest. "I shall take the word of a madman who claims memories a thousand years old that my ship is intact and that—" she pointed at the Trident, quiescent now among the litter, ringed around with spiders "—is my best friend, second only to my Captain in commanding my trust! My heart is eased, Anjemalti—behold my calmness, my tranquillity. In seven hours, you are home and I wash my hands of you both!" She turned toward the hall, foot clinking against the fallen teacup.

  "Corbinye Faztherot?" Witness was looking at her from bright brown eyes.

  "What madness now?" she snapped.

  "Only that the Memories I may draw upon are much older than a mere thousand of your standardized years," he said mildly. "I thought it meet that you should know it."

  She closed her eyes; drew breath for the gods only knew what retort.

  "Saxony Belaconto is most likely even now on course for Bindal," said Anjemalti.

  She opened her eyes wide at him. "No concern of mine where the bitch goes, so long as she fails to come alongside the Ship."

  "She will terrorize the Bindalche," Anjemalti persisted, as if it had something to do with her—or with him. "She'll kill for hesernym, enslave who might not die—"

  "You forget The Combine," she said sweetly; "Bindal is well-protected."

  He brushed that aside with an impatient hand, snapped to his feet and stood over her, face and eyes intent. "We must go to Bindal," he said, slow and excruciatingly calm. "We must return the Smiter and the Witness to the Telios. A Seeker will come forth from the ranks of the Bindalche. The Smiter is rewired—functioning as it should. With it the Seeker and the Bindalche will be able to repel the Vornet." He paused, then repeated. "We must go to Bindal."

  Corbinye sighed. "Well, and if you must, Anjemalti, who am I to tell you nay? I only do my duty, as given me by Acting Captain and First Mate Mael Faztherot. That duty is to bring her Captain-to-be Anjemalti Kristefyon, so that his Crew may know him and he may be about the business for which he was foretold." She shrugged and decided against bending to retrieve the cup. All were lost, should she swoon again. . ..

  "And if I require you to give over command of this ship to me?"

  "As much as it must grieve me to disobey the Captain-to-be, he is not as yet the Captain-in-fact," she said, though her heart wept for the lie.

  His face was tight, but he asked the question anyway, voice deadly soft. "And if I take command of this ship?"

  "Alas," she said, her own voice as soft, and meeting his eyes most
straightly. "I have anticipated you, I fear, cousin. The board is geared for my hand only; Navigation requires a set response to an imposed list of queries. If my hand fails and even one question is answered incorrectly, this ship dies." She gestured, encompassing Witness, spiders, Trident—himself. "And all within it."

  "My duty shall be dispatched with honor," she said, though she wanted only to weep at the look of his face. "It has always been so, and with all else that has changed for me, this will not."

  Silence, except for the rattling hum of the air scrubbers, valiantly striving against the odor of epoxy and fear. Corbinye licked her lips. "Seven hours, Anjemalti."

  "Seven hours, Corbinye," he returned, dead-voiced, and showed her his back.

  Swallowing hard against nausea and dizziness, she went out of the cabin and down the hall, feeling nothing but ashes where her heart should be, and no joy at all that she had won the bluff.

  She went and sat in the pilot's chair to wait the hours out, and if she cried while she sat there, none knew it, for even Number Fifteen did not come near.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Gardenspot, fifth to be commissioned of a Class of 36 GenerationShips designed, patented and built by Doctor Sir Albee K. Messenger of GriffithPod L5, Father of the Crew, hung in viewscreens six through nine.

  Corbinye allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation. "Pretty piloting indeed," she murmured approvingly, and felt a quiver as Number Fifteen stirred beneath her collar. She ran the board-checks and flipped open the hailing frequency. Although still too distant for rational conversation, they would have read her ID by now, and news of Anjemalti's presence must be published as soon—

  "Tight piloting," Anjemalti's voice was in her ear a bare instant before he hit the second's chair. She glanced over at him, noting that he had bathed and cleaned his clothing and perhaps even rested. His shining hair was tied neatly back with a strip of ribbon. The side of his face was what he showed her, so she could not read him that way; his eyes were all on the screens.